The frustrated rant of a book-lover.

When I read books, I admit that I get a little weird. I laugh and cry with the characters and take them very seriously as if they were real people (As I type this, my head is convincing me that they are real indeed). I do get depressed when a character dies, and I mourn for them till my broken heart finds a rebound. This may seem queer to people who don't read and that is completely okay with me. What is not okay, is that they ridicule it! I get strange looks when people find me reading in my spare time. I mean, since when is it normal to watch a movie for leisure, but if you spot a person reading something (which, in my opinion, is the best way to spend free time), he/she is the most mundane person on the face of the earth. Yes there are people who enjoy reading and prefer to read away to glory instead of  watching cinema, FACE IT!
         On social media, you see two kinds of people. The first being, people who upload selfies of themselves with a heart-warming, sentimental line stolen from Tumblr. The second type- the hashtaggers. They would go on to write an entire paragraph using only hashtags.  (Apparently, replacing "." with "#" makes you look cooler.)  And these very people are the ones considered cool in the society, they are the fad, and that's still fine with me. If you find joy in doing these things, then by all means continue. I'm nobody to judge you. HOWEVER, if a person uploads a book review or something he/she read in a book, all it gets is a mere 'scroll', so they can move on to better, less sensible things. WHY ARE BOOKS NOT GETTING THE ATTENTION THEY DESERVE?
      Do you realise?  A one thousand pages book is comprised of just twenty-six letters re-arranged in different ways. These twenty-six letters proceed to make a whole story, a whole plot, and in some cases, a whole new world. Can you acknowledge the fact that these twenty six letters engross the reader and leave him entirely raptured in his book- world? How magical is that! Zillions of books took birth from these mere twenty six letters. That, my friend,  is nothing less than absolutely amazing!
      Then why is nobody appreciating this wondrous four lettered thing called BOOK? Why is a girl with red lipstick pouting at the camera, or a guy pretentiously posing on his Harley Davidson (we know that is not really a candid picture) more interesting than a paperback? A book has so much to teach you, so much to enlighten you with, it will be your best friend, your own universe away from the grey reality you live in.
     It is an earnest request from a person who loves to read, do not consider it stupid if you see a person dwelling in books. It is fine if you don't get it, we do not expect you to.However, do not ask us how we don't find reading boring or monotonous. We just don't.  Do not interrupt when it is very much evident that we are totally into the books. It may not seem important to you,but it is for us.
      And last but not the least, if you borrow a book from us, have the courtesy to keep it in good condition. They are extremely precious. If you are not going to read it and it's just lying in a corner of your room accumulating dust, please return it. It's a little too humiliating. I read somewhere, ''Everybody is a reader, they just  have to find the right book''. I hope you find yours, and until then, just appreciate the ones who already have.

PS- Published in interest of the cause- MAKE READING COOL AGAIN.
PPS- Okay, I made that up.

YAKUB.

It was 7 AM and Humera's bleating woke me up from my slumber. I shifted to sleep under the sunlight seeping through my caged windows. Winters in Kangra were extremely cold, and if you didn't have warm clothes, you'd be sure you wouldn't live long enough to see another winter. Humera is lucky that way. We always joke that she has a perpetual sweater on her back. Whenever we take her for shearing, I sob on my Ammi's bosom. I feel sad because nobody bothers about the fact that she would be cold if we take away her sweater. Zayed laughs at me when I say this, he calls me a buddhu who cries like a girl. I began to ignore him after I accepted the fact that he was born solely to give me a hassled life.
I couldn't catch a wink after that so I decided to wake up and help Ammi with her chores, since she was always toiling. I had barely ever seen her sleep, other than the times when I woke up in the middle of the night because of nightmares. Even then she would put me to sleep and only then go back to sleep herself. Every khala in my area had their husbands to take care of the house, but my Ammi did it all alone. Abba worked in a medical college, he is not a doctor, he is the gardener there, but I think that is equally important. Looking at flowers makes people happy and my Abba makes sure of that. He comes home once in 3-4 months, he says he cant afford to take a bus home every day, so he stays near the medical college. Every time he comes home he gets me and Zayed a small gift. The last time he came, he got me a top! He knew I envied my friends whenever I saw them playing with their tops. I was so happy that I went to sleep clutching it tight. However, more than the gifts it was the joy of having him home that made me happy. My friends hold their fathers' hand when they cross that shaky bridge each day on the way to school, and I go all alone. I assure Ammi I'm not scared but I think she knows that I lie. Abba brought with him a sense of security and safety. Whenever he left, I used to cry for days at end. I hated being weak, but the tears came before I could stop them. I really miss him.We used to build blanket forts together and he would tell me stories inside the fort. He weaved these stories spontaneously and I would always be amazed at his skill. I wish I was as smart as him. Then my teachers wouldn't hit me with that wooden scale in school.
....Anyway, Ammi was making Patande for breakfast and I quickly brushed my teeth and sat down for breakfast before Zayed woke up. After I was done, I fed Humera. She was my companion and I spoke to her even if she didn't understand anything. Ammi tells me we are like Jay and Veeru. I never understood what she meant but I think it is related to a bollywood film. It was 8 by the time I realised I'm already late for school. I got dressed hurriedly in my school uniform. Actually it was Zayed's, I hated that I always got his hand-me-downs. Zayed stopped going to school after seventh grade. He works at Amir kaka's shop now. School was an hour away, that is if I didn't go wandering where my mind took me. Fortunately, I reached exactly on time for the assembly. After the national anthem, we were seated at our places, and a group of doctors were welcomed to the dias by the Principal. Several speeches followed their welcome and I dozed through most of them. Once we were inside our class, the class teacher told us that we were supposed to go with the doctors for a medical check up. The whole class gasped since we were sure of getting injections at the hospital. Complaining about the atrocities imposed on us, we boarded the bus which was supposed to take us to this hospital. Once the journey commenced, we forgot all about the needles and syringes and started having a good time. It was not every day after all that we got to go for such long drives. We sang bollywood songs and some of the bigger kids sung english songs which we didn't understand. Some of us were snoozing when we reached our destination, and got down all sleepy and groggy. Surprisingly, the medical check up didn't turn out to be remotely related to injections. They only checked whether our heart beats right, whether our vision is clear, and whether our throat looks okay. We were made to stand in a queue and were led back towards our bus shortly after.
When I was exiting the gate, I heard someone call out, "Yakub!!!" Half-knowingly, I turned towards the man calling out to me, and before I knew it I was running towards him. My vision blurred because of the tears in my eyes, I just ran and ran until I fell into his outstretched arms. Seeing him so unexpectedly opened the channels to all my emotions, and I had to bite my lip to stop myself from crying. Abba beamed down at me and I felt utterly embarassed as I hugged him and soaked his soiled shirt with my tears. But for once, I did not care what my classmates thought of me. I was with my Abba jaan and that was all that mattered. I had no idea that this was where Abba worked. I had heard Ammi say it several times but I had never remembered. I dreaded to think how regretful I would have been if I had left without meeting him. I would have spent days agreeing with Zayed that I'm a worthless fool. I told Abba about Humera, about how Ammi made patande for breakfast, how Zayed always poked fun at me. He listened patiently, smiling and nodding his approval at the right places. The bus driver's honks were left unheard as I went on with my countless stories. It felt good talking to him and being held by him. However, all good things come to an end and soon it was time to leave.
As I said good-bye to Abba, I was certain I saw something glistening in his eyes, but I didn't mention it to him. My bus sped off, and the melancholy in my heart was replaced by another feeling I can't really describe. When the first rain of monsoon falls after three months of summer, the trees and their leaves are wiped off their grime and dust, and are cleansed again. Suddenly everything starts to appear green and beautiful. Meeting Abba felt like that. Months of suppressed anguish had found a release in his arms. I felt new again, whole again. It felt like everything suddenly fell at their right place. I could hold on to this memory and carry on until he came to meet us again. I also felt bad for Ammi and Zayed since they couldn't meet Abba, but he had promised he would soon come home to visit. He had sent with me a flower from his garden for Ammi and a candy for Zayed. I tucked them safely in my bag and giggled at the thought of how surprised they would be when they received it.
So this was the best day of my life. It may not be as grand and adventurous as others' story, but it was the best moment for me.
PS- If I win this essay competition, it would be the second best day of my life. Thank you.
                                                                                           
                                                                                                                   - Yakub Ahmed
                                                                                                                      3rd standard.

Romione fanfic.

Fanfiction (noun) : Fanfiction is when someone takes either the story or characters (or both) of a certain piece of work, whether it be a novel, tv show, movie, etc, and create their own story based on it. 

IF YOU HAVE WATCHED OR READ HARRY POTTER, YOU WILL BE KNOWING ALL ABOUT RON AND HERMIONE, TWO OF THE MAIN CHARACTERS OF THE SERIES. THIS IS A FAN FICTION I WROTE ON RON AND HERMIONE (ROMIONE), BECAUSE I'M A ROMIONE FANATIC! I HOPE YOU ENJOY READING THIS AS MUCH AS I ENJOYED WRITING IT. :) 

After the battle of Hogwarts, though the ecstasy of defeating the most dangerous dark wizard, Voldemort, was very evident, the pressing grief of losing a loved one weighed down on everybody. Losing friends was tragic, but losing family was outright devastating. One of the families affected, among several, was the Weasley family. Needless to say, Fred and George were renowned in Hogwarts, not just for being amazing beaters in the Gryffindor quidditch team but mainly for being the most entertaining and clever pranksters (Nobody would ever forget the Umbridge episode). Everybody involuntarily felt that George was the most affected by Fred's death, which was true. Fred and George were one, inseparable, but now unfortunately separated, by death. However, there was one more person who felt the loss of Fred as deeply as George did. Ronald.
Ron was born after the twins and was the guinea pig in many of their experiments. Charlie, Bill, and Percy were scapegoats nevertheless, but since they were elder, the twins didn't have the same liberty they did with Ron. Albeit the incessant pranking, Ginny still held a soft corner in their hearts, since she was the precious little sister. So that left Ron- the victim of most of their jokes. Initially, Ron used to get agitated, but gradually even he had started to enjoy the twins' antiques. If nothing, it had only made him stronger to face the world outside, where people were waiting to bully him for his red hair, freckles, lanky stature and hand-me-down robes. Fred was the reason he was terrified of spiders, very true, but he was also part of the reason why Ron was brave enough to enter the forbidden forest in his second year, when he followed the spiders with Harry according to Hagrid's instructions. If he could survive staying with Fred and George, he could survive just about anything. Unknowingly, the twins had given him a protective shell.
Ron understood that George needed the care and affection more than he did, so he put up a brave face in front of his family. He couldn't falter in front of them, could he? He waited until everybody went to sleep each night, and once the lights were out, he clutched Fred's jumper that had been passed on to him after Fred had outgrown it, and wept bitterly. Each night he did this, and he thought nobody noticed how broken he was, but he was wrong. Hermione never failed to see that Ron was sinking deep into his sorrow with each passing day. She noticed how, whenever he smiled, the smile didn't reach his eyes, how his eyes kept moving towards Fred's empty chair at the dinner table. Ron thought he could escape everyone, but this numpty couldn't escape his girlfriend. After casting the obliviate charm on her parents, Hermione had nowhere to go. She always insisted on going back to her empty house, but Molly wouldn't have it! She said Hermione was only a child and even the brightest witch needed to be around people who loved her, especially after the emotional and physical turmoil she had been through during the battle. Hermione relented, knowing that secretly she did want to stay with them, because going back to that empty house was much too painful.
Everyday, Ron and Hermione went for a quiet walk together, sometimes got rid of garden gnomes, and Ron even tried to teach her Quidditch! If there was one thing Hermione didn't have any interest in, it was Quidditch. However, Ron seemed happy when he was flying on the broom trying to teach Hermione how to pass the quaffle through the loop, and as long as Ron could maintain this momentary happiness, Hermione had no reason to complain, so she went on with it. One night when Ron came out of his room to go to the kitchen for a glass of water, he saw Hermione sitting there reading a book, and quickly lowered his eyes. He didn't want her to look at his eyes which were red and puffy from all the sobbing. Hermione couldn't take it anymore and slowly approached him from behind and laying a hand on his shoulder, muttered, "I know, Ron''. Just like that, Ron broke down again, he held on to Hermione and she consoled him like how you would console a bawling baby. She managed to compose him somehow and took him to his room, and tucked him under the blanket. Just as she was leaving, she realised that even though he wouldn't say it, Ron needed her. So she climbed on to his bed and held him tight in her arms as he slowly drifted off to sleep. Hermione realised that she had seen Ron at his most vulnerable tonight. She knew she would do anything to make him better, to just see him smile that smile again, and just then, as if he could read her mind, Ron woke up with a start. He looked beside him to see Hermione looking up at him with anxious eyes, his face lit up into this warm, sincere smile and he went back to sleep again, holding her hand. It was as if all his troubles had disappeared by just knowing that Hermione was beside him, she was with him and life had become easier again. Ron had no nightmares that night and peacefully slept after a long long time.
On the morrow, when he woke up, he saw Hermione was gone. He rushed downstairs to find her and when he did, he pulled her away from his large family and took her towards the tree under which they sat after their stroll everyday. He looked into her eyes and whispered, "You saved me". Hermione's eyes welled up with tears and she found herself unable to reply. Ron just hugged her until she could compose herself, then Hermione broke away from the hug and said, "You don't have the emotional range of a teaspoon after all", and Ron burst out laughing. Molly looked outside her window at that exact moment to spot her son laughing again, and she knew....ALL WAS WELL.

Lessons my Hostel taught me.

Four years we spent in one room, in one building, four years we made memories as we drifted through the coridoors, moving from room to room like nomads. Four years we spent sitting on the same bed with mates, to watch a movie, or to gossip, or to cry under the blankets once the lights are out. We laughed, celebrated, resented, disdained. We entered as immature, aloof eighteen year olds, we leave as mature, responsible (upto an extent), independent twenty-two year olds. We spent those four years of our lives which sculpt an individual. We interacted with complete strangers who went on to become best friends, we also interacted with people who became foes. Knowingly, unknowingly, we changed. Apart from the homesickness and appreciation for 'Ghar ka khaana' , hostel life taught us some lasting lessons. These are few I could think of.

1. There's much more to a person than what meets the eye.

The quiet girl may be the most wild person you've ever seen. The most friendly girl may be the one wearing a mask and hiding scorn underneath. The only tricky thing was deciphering which was which.

2. There is always somebody.

When you stay at a place where multiple people reside, not all of them can be your friends; but there's this invisible bond between these people, like we are part of the same territory. And this invisible bond renders you with always having somebody to fall back on. You may have never spoken to her, but she'll still lend you a pack of Maggi at 3 AM when you're as hungry as a hungry person. (Pardon my simile).

3. Laughter is always around the corner.

Everyone has their days when things seem gloomy and there's a grey cloud hovering above your head, with a constant downpour which drenches you to the bones. Such days, all you want is to be left alone, but considering the fact that there's no isolated place in the whole building, you resign to your bed, put on your earphones and snap out of reality until you're sane again. When finally you're ready to get out of your den, you will always find someone who will lift your moods. It may be as small as sitting with a friend at the hostel entrance, gazing at the empty lane ahead, or as grand as going for a movie with your posting batch.

4. You begin to appreciate solitude.

Like we all know, Man appreciates what he has after it is taken away from him. Having company is great, but sometimes the only company you need is your own. As the daily routine starts taking a toll on you, you find yourself inclined towards disconnecting from the crowd, and surrendering to your solitary retreat. You need some time alone, and you realise that it rejuvenates you just as much as spending a day out with friends does. You learn to differentiate between loneliness and solitude as you periodically retreat to the silent abode.

5. People drift away.

The people who were best buds in first year, become 'Hi-Bye' friends by final year. The more time you spend with a person, the more you get to know them. This may work for you or against you. Many a times you find people who get closer, and the bond becomes stronger with passing time; but there are also people who get distant and move out of your orbit gradually. It is a mutual process, no bitter feelings, just that oil and water can never be miscible.

6. You learn to stand up for yourself.

From being the timid pushover, to being the rebellious fighter, you evolve. You acknowledge that there are people who are going to walk all over you, and there's only you who can save yourself. You stand up to the girl who thinks she can mock you and pass it off as a joke. You stand up for your friend who is being humiliated by a couple of baneful seniors. You become your own knight in shining armour.

Basically, I think staying away from home has it's own pros and cons. However, at the end of it, you always emerge more mature , more confident, and more grown than what you were when you first entered. From doing your own laundry, to taking care of yourself on sick days, you grow up unnoticably. It's only when you pack your bags, and see your batchmates clearing up their rooms to leave, that you realise, inspite of all the tough times, you're grateful for having experienced this emotional, adventurous ride.
Remember how you felt when the renowned TV series F.R.I.E.N.D.S got over? This feels just like the last episode of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. Today, I leave my hostel. Today, I prepare to start living outside in an apartment, bereft of the protective cocoon that hostel provided. Today, I tie up all the memories I've made, and proceed to make new ones. Today, I end a journey that began four years ago.

Beyond face value.

So I was listening to some music the other day, and I was really listening; not going about with my chores while some guy sings in the background. I was having a rest day, and was sprawled on my bed hearing James Blunt sing ''You're beautiful", and the wheels in my brain started churning over the lyrics. The protagonist was a guy who was bowled over by the beauty of a woman he saw at the subway. Maybe it was really romantic and all that, but I was just thinking, what if it was a dim-witted lass who just happened to have a beautiful mother?
It left me puzzled as to why external beauty is so overrated. I mean, sure some people have the perfect long lashes, the puckered rosy lips, the almond-shaped eyes, and a nose sharper than the brain, but in the end, it is just an appearance. There's so much more to a person than how he appears. Why are the movies, and songs, and books not talking about passion? I know some people who are so passionate about the things they do, that you can actually see the twinkle in their eyes and the jump in their step whenever they talk about it; and I admire them for the love they harbour for this particular thing, may it be reading, painting, or just how the stars arrange into constellations. I am basically a tech-illiterate person, but when I hear some of my friends talk about these things, I listen. I listen not because I understand what they are blabbering about, but because their enthusiasm is so contagious that you want to know more about this wondrous strange thing. Now, if I were to cross eyes with the same person on a subway, I wouldn't look twice, and would go about my business without giving it a second thought. Because hey! He's just a mediocre looking person and I didn't go weak in my knees over his perfect bod.
So why are the movies, books, songs and every other kind of media not advertising zeal? Why are we not appreciating passion? Why do we run behind beauty, which, if I may, is just temporary. That beauty is going to be masked with wrinkles one day, or a really nasty rash you picked up in Foochow. However, the love you hold inside your mind and heart for your passion is perpetual. You're going to pursue it until your heart tells you that you have accomplished everything you've wanted. It is going to keep you striving for your endeavour, it's going to define your character. An attractive face with an empty mind is, in my opinion, a body without a soul in it. So dear writers, stop with these claims of outer beauty being superlative. Channel something more everlasting, something more substantial. Give the mediocre a chance. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder they say, what if beauty is in everything? Even the rock which is covered with moss and has little bugs crawling on it, because you know what?! Maybe it was formed even before your great-grandmother was born and it's still there waving goodbye to so many generations! Well, it's definitely way more interesting than the chick who posts a thousand selfies on Instagram. If you're going to admire the sculpture, also admire what it came from. Worship the core of a person, not the nincompoop with God-gifted external features.
Be that person who has a purpose in life, if you haven't found it yet, it doesn't matter. You will find it one fine day, maybe when you're twenty, or maybe even fifty, but you'll reach that. Impress with your mind, and you'll be beautiful in your own way. If it doesn't agree with the standards set by the world, just acknowledge the rebel that you are and defy the parameters set by the society, which changes with the fad. Be your own whetstone, break the stereotypes, redefine what the world thinks beauty is, and even though you're unaware of it, I'm certain that you will find it within you.

3 AM thoughts.

You know, we are all growing up now. Some of my friends have already graduated, some are working, some are getting married, I'll be finishing with my final year in a month and then I'll be an intern, my sister is getting married and moving away from home. Time is moving so fast. Just yesterday we were a bunch of kids fooling around, making plans of meeting up and thinking of the future like it is light years away, and just like that, here we are. We will leave hostel soon and drift apart. We are going to be like the grown ups who reminisce and get nostalgic about the past and tell stories about it to anyone who is willing to listen. And still, inspite of all this, we stand so uncertain, so unsure of the nebulous future that's looming upon us. It's like we are sprinting in a vast field unaware of our destiny. Just running and running and running. Chasing the Sun, going where life is taking us. But soon there will be a dead end and you'll know that this is it. I'm on my own hereupon. Then you'll look around and all the peers you were running with would have disappeared. You'll be left alone to fend for yourself. However, you would have always anticipated this, so with a quaint smile you'll take the first step. It's like putting your feet in the water at the beach. You don't know how cold it is, but you know for certain you want to take the plunge. So little by little, you wade inside the water and all at once you dive and swim and feel exhilarated.
This feels somewhat like that. You're so unsure, so naive, yet so eager to know what awaits you. Maybe that's the beauty of it all, the spontaneity has it's own charm. You embrace it on your journey, and one fine day you open your eyes and you're accustomed, you know it like the back of your hand and you've admixed with it. It feels like breathing, so natural, so effortless. Then you prepare yourself for another milestone, for the next threshold, from where you'll jump again to another universe. One more time.

Disseloon of Bamboozia.

THIS ONE IS A STORY I WROTE FOR MY FRIEND ON HER BIRTHDAY. AS A KID, I WAS A FAN OF GOLDILOCKS AND LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD, SO THIS IS SOMETHING INSPIRED FROM MY FIRST FAVOURITES.

      Once upon a time, not very long ago, there lived a girl named Disseloon. Loony as she was, she was very aptly named and rightly loved by many in her village. Bamboozia was a small place located in the outskirts of an island where hope and love was aplenty. Everybody knew the art of living and the joy of giving. Happiness was found in every nook, laughter at every corner; there was no such thing as prison, for crime was something the Bamboozians were unaware of. Hailing from a place such as this, it was obvious that Disseloon was a jolly kid. However, there was something that set her apart from the rest. She could mend a broken heart, spring joy from the driest stream and her laugh was as contagious as the flu!
One fine day, when she was venturing through the woods to go to her best mate's cottage, Disseloon found something which puzzled and amazed her at the same time. She came across a bridge that she crossed almost everyday since she was a kid. However, it was something else that caught her eye that day. This dilapidated bridge had an archway underneath it which was covered in ruin. Bushes and thorns engulfed it and everything was dry to the bone; what was surprising was that the surroundings immediately adjacent to it were lush and green as ever. Flowers blossomed and berries bloomed. But in contrast, the archway looked eerie and grey. Curiosity gripping her, she decided to venture and explore this place which was known to her but yet seemed so unknown. As she drew nearer to the archway, it seemed to get colder.
Once she managed to remove the cobwebs and the tangled mess, she was amazed because the view she beheld looked like a scene from the 60s. It wasn't because she saw The Beatles there, or Freddie Mercury himself, singing the Radio Gaga. It was just that this place was grey, literally! Just like the old black and white movies! There were flowers and butterflies, and streams and houses, but everything was monochrome! She rubbed her eyes and pinched herself, half-expecting to wake up from her deep slumber. However, it was as real as she was. She probed further, her heart racing, she didn't know what kind of monsters this place held. Whether it was anxiety or pure nerve she didn't understand, but she kept going ahead unsure whether it was possible to find something even more amusing.
Suddenly she heard noises coming from a few blocks away, she ran towards it and was bewildered on finding....children! She just stood there dumbfounded because she expected to find Goblins or Elves or Trolls or some other surreal creature in this obscure land. Finding her voice back, she said "Hello" , all at once the tiny eyes fell upon her.
"Errr...hey!", one of them replied.
They wore shocked faces, as if they just saw something right out of a fantasy book. And then it struck Disseloon! She must be appearing as strange to them as they did to her! She was wearing a red skirt with yellow bugs printed across it and a blue blouse with green pixies on them. That was too much colour on one person for any normal individual, so you can imagine how supernatural Disseloon must have appeared to these children from a grey land. Trying to not scare them away, she hurriedly explained to them where she had come from. Gradually, the children calmed down. They were just like her, the only difference being, they didn't seem happy. She never found anybody smiling; it was almost as if she were talking to a couple of robots with beating hearts.
" So, no offense, but have you really never seen any colour?" , asked Disseloon.
"Colour? What's a colour?", asked Groosh, the young boy who had had the nerve to speak before.
"See this?", pointed Disseloon towards her skirt, " this is called red, and this tiny bug over it, that's yellow. There are several colours actually, I can't even pronounce some of them"
Groosh looked embarassed of himself. There existed a land which seemed so interesting and vibrant, and he had no such things to tell Disseloon about his village. Disseloon realised what Groosh must be thinking and empathising with him, she appreciated the stream on which water flowed like Mercury. This glistening fluid fascinated her so much that Groosh lightened up a little. Realising how late it was, she got up at once to leave. This saddened them and they looked even more sodden than they did before. They wanted to know more about this foreign land which seemed more and more exciting by the minute. However, they did seem to cheer up a bit when Disseloon promised she would return. Waving towards them, as she exited the archway, the warmth hit her and she realised how cold this place was in every sense. This determined her to try her best and introduce these people to a land like Bamboozia where joy flowed as effortlessly as water.
The day finally arrived when Disseloon came back to the 'Grey Land' (as she secretly called it), but this time she didn't come empty-handed. As she met her new friends, she told them she had got something for them. Dramatic as she was, she made them shut their eyes as she drew it from her pocket.They waited with baited breath and she told them to slowly open their eyes to have a look at the object that would change their lives! However, it turned out to be a massive disappointment! It was nothing but a pyramidal block which looked like anything else they'd ever set their eyes upon, there was no 'colour' in it. She giggled as she read their minds.
"I know what you're thinking, but I promise it gets better."
She led them towards the trees, where sunshine poured from between the branches. As the white light hit the prism, all at once the children's faces lit up. There was colour everywhere. RED, BLUE, GREEN, YELLOW, it radiated from within this magical object and soaked them all.The whole place brightened up, and how sun rays spread on earth from the sky, likewise these colours started spreading and painted every inch of land. People came out of their houses to witness this phenomena and to Disseloon's surprise, they were all smiling! The children were laughing and running around the pastures, their feet sprinting through the green grass, they climbed on trees and tried to touch the blue sky. The bumbling bees sucked sweet nectar from the crimson flowers, but inspite of all this, the brightest of everything was the smile on everybody's faces.
Disseloon had tears of joy when the whole village thanked her for colouring their lives (literally). Groosh couldn't stop expressing his gratitude and with considerable effort, Disseloon managed to finally shut him up. After a few hours of merry-making, they said good-bye to each other, but it was not really farewell. Groosh promised to visit Bamboozia and Disseloon would obviously keep coming. She wasn't after all somebody who leaves a person alone once she has befriended them ;)

This was the story of a girl named Disseloon,  and it may seem fictional to you, but guess what? It's all very true! Yes, this loony, amazing girl exists!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DISSU! (Also known as Bhavya) Thank you for being my best friend and filling so much colour and happiness in all our lives :D

A parody of Life.

In the well furnished room, among the Victorian interiors and hardwood floors sat Ms.Faith in her plush couch resting her feet on the ottoman. She sat gazing at her recently finished painting of a girl with dainty feet and thick black curls dangling from her head, accompanied by eyes as blue and deep as the ocean. Ms.Faith even at the age of 53, was a woman of class. She was one of the most celebrated artists of her time and the hard-earned fame and glory was solely her own feat. Her vanity was even justified upto a certain extent. However, inspite of all this, she was completely oblivious of a grave thing that occured in her absence, under her own roof.
Living as a spinster, her house remained empty most of the times when she was out attending exhibitions in art galleries or busy with one of her socialite parties. And it's during these vacant periods that her paintings all came to life in the literal sense. The moment she was out of her villa, her paintings would dissolute and step out of their canvases to become animate. Since the characters in these paintings were extremely cautious, Ms.Faith never had the slightest inkling about this bizarre reality.
Today, after her extensive admiration of the new painting, as Ms.Faith got up from her comfortable couch to leave for the inaugration of an Art school, the apparently unalive paintings started preparing themselves for their usual ritual. As the door closed, and Ms.Faith vanished, the paintings waited for a safe period of five minutes after which, one by one each painting started disengaging itself. It was like looking at a puzzle in which each part was being removed systematically. The petite girl who was created by the artist just moments ago was the first one to get out. Next was Ms.Faith's rendition of "Socrates". Similarly, the multitudes of paintings disembodied themselves and gathered in the dining area. The last to reach was a centaur. They seated themselves comfortably in the spacious dining room and each one was ready with his/her rant.
This was a tradition carried out in this household from when Ms.Faith first started painting. Each character spilled out his/her emotional baggage while the others listened. The theme of the rant was always the same- 'How their soul is trapped in an unknown body'. They let the newly manifested girl go first.
" What is this? Why am I wearing a frock? And my hair, who on earth has such perfect locks? Why do I look like my whole face has been powdered ten times? This is not me. I don't want to look so superficial, is it possible to change my appearance? You, sir! You look splendid! I really wish she painted me like you, that make-up and that dressing really suits you!"
The mimer simply replied with a number of gestures which the girl could not fathom.
"Have a look at me, will you?" said the centaur, "I'm sure that will stop you from complaining. I'm half human, half horse. So basically I'm not half as good as you. The horses shun me because they think I am like the humans who use them for manual labour and the humans feel inferior when they are with me because of my evident horsepower. So hoof am I really?"
One by one they started speaking and eventually all hell broke loose. Everybody kept blabbering irrespective of whether anybody was listening or not. The opera singers were singing their lungs out, it sounded like they were angry but the sweet melody made it confusing to judge. The Neanderthal was trying to converse with ridiculous grunts and pretty evidently trying hard to appear like a Homo Sapien. The mimer was aggressively miming unable to express himself as efficiently as he wanted to and it just ended up looking like he was having a seizure. Amidst all the pandemonium stood out one man who was as calm as a winter night. Co-incidentally, this was the same man who was Ms.Faith's 'Socrates'. He loudly cleared his throat in an attempt to speak, and just like that, the whole room fell silent. This man had the authority with which he was originally painted.
"Look at you!", he exclaimed, "Causing a havoc over something which is beyond repair. You were made like this brothers, you cannot be changed because it is simply impossible. You are inanimate to the world and that is the reality no matter how much you try to change it. However, I do admire you all for rebelling like this, for raising your voice over the injustice done to you. It is true indeed that you should be given the right to decide your character, to shape yourself according to your own interests; but it is also true that you have been made this way by your creator and there is nothing you can do to reverse your destiny." "But I tell you this, You're not alone my fellows. The same specie who created you, the humans, they frequently live lives which are not their own. They shape themselves according to the needs of the society. They fret about what the world thinks and act according to what is socially acceptable. They fear to get out of their comfort zone and succumb to what they think is safe and practical, they do not venture or scrutinize and basically are puppets who dance to the strings held by the Society. And all this, even after they have a choice! Even after being the master of their own game! Even after being capable of designing their own destiny! So then what are you? Mere brush strokes on a piece of paper, hah!" "If our superior counterpart has left all hope in life and live under the grey-scale, you should be considering yourselves extremely fortunate to atleast have some colour and meaning in life."
This sounded so absurd and foolish to the other paintings. Humans had the ability to mould their clay according to their own whims and fancies but still chose to let another potter play with it. If they could, they would grab the first opportunity to run the brush and master a few strokes here and there in order to transform themselves into what they really are, to release their soul from the unknown body they were trapped in. On the contrary, their own creators had the freedom but were still refraining from using it. So what good was it for the paintings to argue over something which was not even in their hands. Considering this the only consolation they could muster, the paintings quietly climbed back into their canvases.
After a while, Ms.Faith was back home looking fatigued and worn-out. As she was getting ready to go to bed, a phone call from her secretary informed her that she had an appointment with yet another businessman, to strike yet another business deal. As she groaned and readied herself to act according to the social protocol, her beloved paintings in the canvases were all trying to stifle their knowing smiles.

The tale of a Bibliophile.

My relation with books stretches back to a long time ago when I was about 5-6 years old. Coming from a pretty typical Indian family, the focus was mainly on my studies and the only books that were readily bought were the dull textbooks which dampened any child's imagination. Reading outside of the curriculum was almost considered bizarre. Fortunately, my father had a contradictory opinion about this; but he was never around much since he was earning bread and butter the malayali way (There's a reason Dubai is like the second Kerala) So I was left with my minute, miniscule library which I think consisted of three books. One was a set of knowledge books which was gifted to my sister by a family friend, the second was a Tinkle comic book which can't really be called literature in the right sense. The third book was very dear to me, called 'The Mango tree' . So I set off with my modest possession for the extensive journey to the land of literature. Nevertheless, I had my ways and thankfully my brain didn't tire of the same old books I repeatedly read to keep the fire ignited.

     As a kid, visits to my cousin's were much looked forward to since they were accompanied by food, merriment, but most of all the prospect of getting to read his books. My indolent cousin had a gem of a book which he was obviously least appreciative of; but my eyes didn't escape this wonderful paperback he had discarded in one of his drawers- "The little Red Riding Hood" (with pictures! Oh yeah!) So this book was, I think, one of the best things that happened to me when I was a child. It opened an array of imagination, everything from her little hooded red dress, to the wolf dressing as the granny outright fascinated me. Oh and I could go on and on about how divine the frayed pages of the book smelled, since my olfactory senses sometimes still get nostalgic about them. Why I was not allowed to take the book home to call it mine, I never understood. My cousin didn't give a rat's ass about it anyway. Well, be that as it may, I'll forever be thankful to Charles Perrault, for I'm sure several kids like me loved this little masterpiece.

    In school, everybody dreaded open house, since that is when the encounter between your parents and teachers occurred which can wreck your life for days to weeks, depending upon the severity of your doings. However, I waited in anticipation of this day. Dear reader, please do not assume I was a brilliant student, it was only because it used to be one of those blessed days when the school hosted a book exhibition! The neglected exhibition acted as my bookstore, in fact the book shelf at home still adorns the books I bought from these exhibitions. They are not very choice books I'm afraid, but it acted as a kick start to my hobby.
    Books opened for me a whole new life, multiple lives to be accurate. I climbed the hill tops of Peshawar, drifted through the land of Westeros, explored Britain in the Victorian era and feasted at the Great hall of Hogwarts. Books enlightened me, took me on expeditions and made me don a hundred different cloaks. Touching a new book felt like laying my hands upon a world full of possibilities. Taking in the waft of yellowed pages was better than any perfume ever bottled. Eyes wandering through the books stacked haphazardly was like seeing magic on parchment.
    Books became a solace, a silent friend, a companion in despair and a medium of satisfaction. They made me see clearly into the nooks and corners of the world. Every book ended with an emotional turmoil followed by days of grey clouds hovering above my head. However, I gradually recovered, and plunged myself yet again into another world. Even if some ignorant people think that reading is boring, one thing I know for certain is that I would gladly spend all my life growing and faltering, living and perishing, dreaming and reasoning with my face buried inside a paperback.

A juvenile reverie

You know how when you were a kid, you used to have imaginary worlds of your own, where dolls could talk and cars could fly and everything was made of chocolate? Then eventually we grew up and the imaginary world crumbled like a house of cards. It was a time when nothing seemed absurd. Everything seemed like a possibility, so much so that we'd even bet our lives on it.
    I can myself give an instance or two, one of which is when I set out to fight with my friends who claimed that Santa is not real. Hey, I mysteriously  got presents every christmas on my windowsill ! So that means he exists! [LOL!] That was all the reasoning we needed. Then the inevitable happened, we grew up [ DAMN!]
    Nursery rhymes were replaced by trigonometry, Dexter's Laboratory was replaced by The Big Bang Theory and Emotions were replaced by Smileys. Although, it happened as a gradual process, the realisation of it dawned like a sudden jerk. However, is this phenomena really as exclusive as it seems to be? Do we really leave the child in us miles away, to rot as we grow up?
    Speaking from whatever little experience I have, I would have to say, if the child in you perishes, it's one of the gravest mistakes you've committed with your own hands. The curiosity, inquisitiveness, bluntness that a child possesses, if we adults try to emulate some of it, we'd build a happier life for ourselves. As we wring ourselves each day and try to keep up with the mice race, we are losing out on the small surprises and minute bouts of ecstacy. Don't make the vivid , animated world we are in, turn into a grey despair. The day novelty dies, mankind will need another evolution.
    So turn and wave back at the child who is trying to catch up with you. Walk with your tiny reflection. If you try to overhaul time, you'll trip and fall head-first. May the spark in your eyes remain until the end of time.

   " ...Refrain, don't carry the world upon your shoulders" ~ The Beatles

That boy/girl thing.

When a girl is born in India, if you're fortunate enough, everyone is overjoyed. They don't see any difference between a boy and a girl. I was one of those lucky people who wasn't discriminated on the grounds of me being a girl. As I grew up I realized I preferred to be a guy than a girl. I mean call me sexist but this is how it is in the Indian society- a girl plays with dolls and is supposed to be shy, submissive and well-behaved. I was none of those. I loathed barbies so much that I deliberately broke the one Barbie somebody made the mistake of gifting me, I got into fights with guys and challenged guys twice my size. I went out on ventures all alone leaving my mother vexed since she couldn't find her precious annoying daughter. Basically, I was a pain in the neck.
      Girls are always brought up in a way such that they live according to certain norms and have to behave a certain way, because hey! You got two X chromosomes! Thankfully I was nurtured in such a way that I never had to restrict myself to these. I think it's unfair that we expect girls to behave and act a certain way only because they are 'girls' . It's liberating to be a guy; you don't have to pay heed to what the society thinks about you or whether you're considered respectable. No matter what you do it will be excusable because "Vo Toh ladka hai" . Subconsciously as a kid I refused to bend to these man-made rules and now as a 21 year old I still refrain from subjecting myself to these regulations.
I am my own person. If I believe in live-in relationships, I'm not immoral. If I see a girl smoking I'm not going to cringe because I see a girl who is smoking, but because I don't support the habit. Time and again you see people creating an uproar over something that a girl pursues and the reasoning is usually that she had the audacity to do something like that inspite of being a girl. Seriously if you're going to oppose something let the reason be gender-free.
If you make your daughter grow up with dolls and your son with cars, you're starting to stereotype from a very young age. I understand that the two genders are different and function in different ways, but that doesn't mean you impose it on them. Let them find their personality. Help them grow as good human beings, not as someone with gender rules. Shape your child's character irrespective of his/her sex. Teach him/her to respect and acknowledge everyone as a fellow human and then as a man or a woman. Let us not create unnecessary differences. We are all imperfect and need to be groomed under the same factors. Don't teach me to be well mannered specifically because I'm a girl but because it's a virtue everybody should inculcate. Each individual has the right to discover himself/herself. Don't build shackles around your daughter. Let her grow without the society deciding her character. Don't clip her wings, let her soar, push her away from the safe nest. She will always come back, you just have to give her a chance.

Reap from the 'Reaper'

                  Reap from the 'Reaper'

If there is one thing common between everything that breathes on earth, it is that one day we all die. Or if I were to talk like an optimist, I'd rather say, once we all lived. Death is an irony really. The deceased feels nothing on leaving behind his family, friends, earthly possessions; but the ones he left behind feel the most agonising of human emotions- Loss/Separation/Atrophy.

      When you lose someone to death, a part inside you dies as well. A feeling you felt only with that person dies, the laughter which only that one person could invoke dies, the person that you are when you're with them dies. The ones who die are instead the ones who now live- the people who loved him; who have a hole in their lives now which seldom is filled.

    So why did God make death? Why don't we get to live eternal life? Why is death inevitable? Because at the end of the day, we all have to go home. Maybe the One who sent us felt the same pain when He had to part with us to give us the gift of life. He knew his plan for us. So He sent us on our way with an assurance that one day we'll come back, where He'll reunite with us and we'll be at the better place. 

     So let go. Don't hold on to the ones you've lost. He had an amazing journey and he's going back home to tell his Creator of all the wonderful people he met, all the dreams he fulfilled, all the love he received and all the beautiful emotions he felt. He's indeed at a better place for there's no sorrow, violence, injustice or cruelty there. Death is on the contrary, the gift of life. They may seem like two diametrically opposite things but the reward is always at the end of the race. When you reach that finish line, you look back at your exciting path, and feel content. For now it's time to retire and return. It's His way of telling you that you've done your part and it's time you come back. 

      So if you have lost someone, realise that we have to let them go. We all have to cross that bridge which separates life from death. And when we look back we'll see every person we loved and will always love waving back at us with tear-filled eyes and a small smile on their face. I once read somewhere, "God crumbles up the old moon into stars" . We are those stars on earth and each one has to carry on his journey back to the moon. Accept it. Kiss goodbye. Release.